Books like Monkeys — picked by fans

I lived Augusten Burroughs’ life while walking in the U.S. National Arboretum through the medium of his audiobook. Augusten Burroughs’ parents had the same issues as my parents, and his life was as eclectic as mine. This allowed me to heal my long-time wounds in a way.

The more I read about the emotional struggles of others, the easier it is for me to fully remember the darkest moments of my childhood. This particular memoir also made it difficult for me to put it down because of its very bizarre plot and dark humor. Additionally, I was fascinated to read about the time before I was born. Isn’t it odd that the world once existed without us?

I loved the Glaswegian (quasi-Irish!) voice of Shuggie Bain, but what I will always remember it for is its gut-wrenching depiction of the consequences of poverty and alcoholism for the titular child character. 

There were times when I was reading this novel that I literally flinched from it. It’s one of the most poignant times that I can remember having such a visceral reaction to a book. 

What I found truly remarkable was the book’s sense of simultaneous inevitability and hope. At once, I felt that there was only one possible end for Agnes and Shuggie, and yet I also somehow believed that both characters would escape their miserable situation.

This idea, that hope sustains even against the most improbable odds, accesses something fundamentally human. A book that can do that is one I would recommend any day.

I’m a big believer in self-help books. This was recommended to me by a therapist who basically saved my life, navigating me through a very difficult time in my life in my twenties. The author, Victoria Secunda, breaks down all the different dysfunctional types of mothers, with chapters titled “The Avenger”, “The Doormat”, “The Critic”, in an easy-to-understand way. Reading this book helped me “diagnose” my mother, who never took responsibility for her mental illness, always blaming her behavior on her kids or others. This book helped me to understand her more fully, perhaps even feel compassion for her. I often recommend it to anyone who, like me, has or had a troubled relationship with their mother.

Eloise is a children’s picture book about a six-year-old girl who lives with her nanny, named Nanny, at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. She has no real parents; her father isn’t around and her mother prefers to jet set around the world, shopping and eating lunch. Eloise is hilariously unkempt, in her rumpled party dress, uncombed hair, and crooked hair bow, she prowls the hotel, looking for snacks and adventure. Eloise has always been close to my heart for her wild imagination and her plucky acceptance of being a fabulously neglected child. 

I could hardly put down this memoir written by the sibling of an autistic boy–set in a time when the term ‘autistic’ did not exist. Mary-Ann Tirone Smith was brought up in New England in the fifties when there was no understanding of autism at all. There was no welfare dept, social services, or health service to turn to for help because no one understood.

Instead, the family ‘absorbs’ Tyler, the autistic brother, and protects and cares for him themselves. Getting this ‘sibling’s view’ is really fascinating. I loved all the quirky characters and the inevitable humor when the outside world does not understand Tyler.

Running alongside the story of Tyler is a true crime story about a school friend of Mary-Ann’s who was murdered by a pedophile. I found the book to be gripping, heartbreaking, funny, and moving. 

This trilogy about a girl who leaves a small New England town to work at a glossy magazine in Manhattan in the 1950s helped me understand the roots of the 1960s feminist culture. Men, including the man she ultimately marries, are simply seen as the authority based on their gender.

I’ll never forget the scene where the protagonist is trying desperately to have a baby, goes to a replacement doctor during summer vacation, and finds out that her primary doctor has been giving her birth control pills disguised as other prescription medicine. “I didn’t think you were ready to be a mother,” the primary doctor tells her later. 

I love, love, love this endearing novella by the author of Little Women. It’s Thanksgiving morning on the Barrett Farm in New Hampshire, and Mrs. Barrett is called away to nurse her sick mother in town. Father hitches up the sleigh and off they go to Grandma’s house, leaving eight hungry children behind. The oldest girl declares that she knows how to roast a turkey, and before you know it, she’s talked her skeptical brothers and sisters into helping her make the feast.  Catastrophe ensues, with a lot of fun for the reader along the way.

Little Women + witches and magic = YES PLEASE!!!! I mean, what else can I say? I grew up loving magic and stories of those who could use it. I also grew up loving Louisa May Alcott’s classic because it was about a family that was poor, just like mine.

So when I found this charming book on a shelf, I raced home to devour it, which I did in record time. The cozy story and gentle artwork lend themselves to a perfect read by the fireplace with a warm cup of tea.  

This novel stayed with me for literally years.

I love a well-told, emotionally complex, family drama set in the burbs (aʹ la John Cheever, Amy Bloom, A.M. Homes, you get the drift).

Setting and gorgeous writing aside, Lily King crawls inside the heart and head of protagonist Daley Amory, a twenty-something who is trying to escape the tyranny of her father’s alcoholism and reinvent a new life for herself.

I rooted hard for her to make this break, to ride off into the sunset, or to enroll at Berkely to study anthropology, and make a life with a great guy.

I won’t give away the ending, but suffice it to say that King writes brilliantly about addiction, family, and the fierce and often futile siren’s call to repair what is broken.  

Jack Larkin, former historian of Old Sturbridge Village, befriended me when I was a research fellow at the Village years ago. He was one of the most generous and original scholars I’ve ever known. Though deeply versed in the primary sources of the Village’s rich research library, Jack’s understanding of the past was richly informed by his immersion in the living history of the Village. He knew the past intimately – how it felt, looked, smelled. For Jack, being “in the room where it happened” had a different meaning: he knew their homes, barns, workshops, meetinghouses. He married this rich evidence with his knowledge of village life – family and neighborly dynamics, the growth of material desires, popular politics, and religious revivalism. This book engagingly preserves Jack’s rare understanding of daily life in the early Republic.